I sink my teeth into his hand until the coppery taste of blood fills my mouth. "Shit," he curses, tightening his grip on me.

"Mom!" I shriek.

He attempts to hoist me up but teeters on Aunt Shannon's rug. Kicking my heels against his legs, I try to wriggle out of his arms.

But the harder I fight, the more he squeezes.

We struggle in the dark, his hold as firm as a straightjacket. Knocking picture frames from the walls of the living room, we careen on the slippery rug, bumping the back of Aunt Shannon's couch. I buck against his chest, using my weight to rock him backwards. He grunts. We tumble over the sofa.

My head smacks his nose with a sickening crunch. Bright lights swim in my vision.

"Fuck!" He groans in my ear. "I'm trying to help your stupid ass."

We are a mess of limbs on the vintage couch. My back on top of him, his arm flopped around my chest, our legs kicked in the air. He finally releases me.

Lifting myself up, I scramble away from him and rush to the wall mantel. It's not much of a weapon, but the squat, wooden analog clock is as heavy as a brick.

"What do you want?" I scream at him, lifting the clock, swinging it in a wild arc in front of me.

In the dark, he looks like a drunk, wobbly shadow. He moans, pulling himself into a kneel. With every strike of lightning, I get a clearer picture of my assailant.

He's a year or two older than me with black hair slicked into a ponytail. His sweatshirt is bulky, so I can't tell if he's broad or not. His chest felt like a wall.

"I'm with The Shields," he says, panting. "We've left notes for you. Your porch, your car..."

Holding the heavy clock in front of me, I slide my back along the mantle until the green drapes brush the back of my head. I feel along the heavy fabric until I've positioned my back towards the foyer.

"Please." The blood in his nose and throat makes it sound like pwease. "Just listen to what I have to say. Fuck, I think you broke it."

The clock in my hands tick-tocks like a hammer hitting nails.

Aunt Shannon's floor lamp flickers, springing to life. Outside, the porch light cracks through the stained glass on the front door, creating a spider web of light on the foyer wall. The buzz of the fridge hums along with the scream of the wind.

He holds his head back, pinching his nose. Blood seeps through slender fingers down onto his maroon University of Oklahoma sweatshirt. His skin is the color of a red clay brick.

"You got something I can use to stop all this blood?"

"You're kidding, right?" Using my forearm, I push my hair from my face. "I'm not getting you shit until you tell me what the fuck you're doing in this house."

This morning when Bella Hardgrove pulled my hair, I'd been too afraid to find the fight inside of me. I'd practically crawled away from her telling myself to keep my head down. To mind my business.

But business is in my house now.

And I'm not going down without a fight, Mercy.

"I'm Alex," he says, smearing blood on the back of his hand. Crawling from the couch, he says, "Ms. Shannon would kill me if I messed up her couch."

"Well, it's a good thing she's dead then, huh?" I lower the clock from my chest to my hip, eyeing the front door. "You knew her?"

"Knew her? She was like my mama." Alex removes his sweatshirt, balls it up, presses it against his nose.

"How the hell did you get in here?"

He uses his elbow to motion to the split level step on the staircase. "Through that door. You were taking a nap."

I recoil as if he's slapped me with an open hand. I march to the step and kick the blue, gold-stitched rug aside. A trap door stares up at me.

My thoughts race.

Where does this door lead? How can I get away from him? How can we get away? I can't leave without Mom. But if she's slept through all this, it'll be damn near impossible to wake her. Can I drag her?

My eyes dart upstairs then back to him. If I can't get away from him, then he'll have a hard time escaping me.

Stalking closer to where he sits on the couch, I hold the ticking clock high above my head. "You've been in this house for hours? Doing what? Watching me sleep?"

He rolls his eyes, which are the same black as his hair, ink and oil. "No, no. It's not like that. Mr. Thatcher wanted me to come talk to you. Didn't Sheriff Colby come and take your mama away?"

"That doesn't excuse you not knocking on the door like a normal person. You had to come through some secret door?"

"I thought they were making their move. Especially when that jackass, Colt, stopped by, acting as sweet as cotton candy. Then, I knew for sure."

He looks at me like a puppy waiting for a treat. But I'm not handing out any treats tonight.

"Knew what for sure?"

Alex blinks and narrow his eyes. Coughs, then blots his nose with his sweatshirt.

"Ms. Shannon never said you'd be dumb," he says with a wet snort. "Didn't she tell you what goes on here? The Colbys wanna sacrifice your ass."